Disclaimer: It all belongs to J.K. Rowling. All of it. Every last bit.
Dedication: Hmm...I think this one's going to go to I Want to Give Neville a Hug (Megan), because even the most different of people can be good friends.
Remember: "Two halves, no matter how different they may be, can always make a whole."
Longing
He gently swirls the crystal blue contents of his goblet around thoughtfully, reflecting wryly how perfectly its shade fits the occasion. The sky-coloured liquid flawlessly matches her eyes – her penetrating orbs that could lure anyone and anything to her. One glimpse into them and his breath was instantly taken from him every time.
He remembers their initial meeting on the Hogwarts Express, and how she'd intrigued him more than anyone else ever had. He remembers her laugh – her long, drawn-out, melodic laugh, and the way that she perched her glittering glasses on the bridge of her freckled nose. He remembers the upside-down reading of her magazine, and the releasing of Stinksap upon those in the compartment. He remembers that that was, in fact, the first time he'd noticed her bright, blazing eyes – as she stood up for her father, the editor of the publication she'd adored so much.
He recalls their first kiss – hesitant, slightly awkward, and stomach-churning, but he also is reminded how much he'd wanted it, more than, well, anything.
However, the most greatly-evoked memory was the day that he told her he loved her. It was one of the greater risks he'd ever taken. He calls to mind her dazzling orbs turning to a sapphire blue that night, filled with an emotion he could not read. He figured soon enough, however, that disappointment would be the feeling that would overcome him, as her reply did not mimic his.
So, he watches now, wondering what went wrong – what had happened, as she dances wildly with her new husband, Rolf Scamander. Her white-blond curls are flying behind her and those stunning eyes are twinkling merrily.
"Are you ready to go, Honey?"
He snaps his attention to another blond woman – this one with rich brown eyes, and clears his throat.
"Yeah, Hannah," he says, "just let me finish up."
With that, he tilts his head back, downs the rest of his glass, and silently sends a message:
"Congratulations."
And right before the two disapparate away, Luna Lovegood-Scamander, from her spot on the dance floor, does not miss the brief look of longing that travels through Neville Longbottom's eyes.
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